I hope you will join me in celebrating.
After years of work and lots of rejections, I am pleased to announce the publication of my first poetry chapbook: Not All Are Weeping. My small book of poems will be published by Main Street Rag sometime in the spring or summer of 2023. Here is a link to a short video of me reading a few poems and talking about the book: Listen here
a chance to spring
a quiet murmur that begs—
My rocking chair the site
of delights—- a coffee, warm buttered bread,
sweater and soft slippers, swaddled
in a blanket of rain light.
Things needing to be done. Shush! Here is
a rainy excuse for meandering
spent flowers, sweet kisses— heady words.
are for bright days.
After, I wander in secret places, mossy paths,
see tiny violets hidden in grass.
I ponder tiny bluet and starflower.
After violent shear of a mower,
punched-flat violet stems spring right back up
I can’t say that
I spring back up anymore
but simply allow the stem
to rise slowly
Published in The Hopper Magazine, May 2022
The Marriage House
A boy in a red cap rides his bike to the baseball field
for the girl who has answers to all the questions in chemistry class.
They marry and ride home with a
string of trout caught at Uncle Gus’s pond hanging downside up like flags from the back of the bike to build a house together.
He brings white pine trees, cozies up to a local watering hole,
rides a clever motorized bicycle
(which he pedals furiously when a car goes by).
She contributes a bright green
and bitter lime marmalade,
her grandmother’s silverware
and the sure path to salvation.
They both hammer and nail the thing together
He fusses about construction, she slap
dashes everything, but the upside is
they start building.
His beaten-up stuffed donkey, her London Fog raincoat,
his clam-shaped boat, her Steinway grand persona
his mother’s perfect chicken
her father’s terrifying judgments.
For the downside of lumber they use
his avoidance, her arrogance. Reload
the secret fears
they vomit up at night
The house grows. No one notices
as termites tear their way up
from the worried foundation, casually chew through
coffee cups thrown, decisions smashed
boxed up feelings
in wine glasses and butter dishes
stashed away for future use.
Holes turn into
caverns and unsure floors,
lower levels eaten into
l a c e.
One day walking up the steps
she plunges through rotten cotton batting and dead bugs,
into an unexpected
with his steeled feelings and pretend promises.
He finds a place
at the other end of the basement
with her abandoned playthings– desires, plans,
sincerities wrapped up in little boxes with bright paper.
They ask what else is hidden here?
Published in Spank the Carp publication, December 2021